Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
"Oh, I just, uh…" you stutter, tensing up. You eye the crone, then back outside the tent. For a moment, the air thickens with anticipation, until... I draw a slow breath, steadying myself. The hag’s eyes glimmer like wet stones, unblinking, waiting. My fingers brush the wooden talisman at my neck, carved long ago by my mother’s hand, and I feel the forest’s weight pressing against my chest.
“I am Eryndor Aerloth,” I begin, my voice low but firm, though the tremor of memory lingers beneath it. “Born beneath the oaks of the Verdant Glades, raised among whispers of spirits and the song of the wild. I walked the paths of deer, learned the language of owls, and vanished into the underbrush as easily as shadow. The bow became my companion, the forest my teacher.”
Recommended Comments